


Then Came Each Actor

by sphinxvictorian



Category: In the Bleak Midwinter (1995)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinxvictorian/pseuds/sphinxvictorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Christmas, another unorthodox play to put on at the church in Hope.  Will the gang rally around Joe and Nina again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then Came Each Actor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irmelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irmelin/gifts).



Terry DuBois shoved his tits into a suitcase, on top of an elegant beaded gown.  He heard Henry down in the kitchen of their tiny house in Brighton, grumbling at the radio as he fixed his usual breakfast of yogurt and bran cereal.  It had used to be a full fry-up -- eggs, bacon, the lot.  But Terry had put a stop to that after Henry had his first heart-attack. 

They’d been living together for three years now, ever since that bizarre, but interesting Christmas when Tim had come back into Terry’s life again.  Henry’d been a big part of that -- and Terry had felt he owed the old darling, so he’d offered to share digs with him, as Henry’s former digs were being sold for luxury flats.  Sure, there were a few rows, but Mrs. Wakefield knew how to keep him laughing.  They had a lot in common, so the arrangement became a permanent one.

Brighton was a good place for both of them.  Close enough to London for Henry to run up for an audition here and there, lots of local regional theatre to get stuck into, and pantos, of course.  Terry liked that he could play all his south coast drag gigs from there, and only have to really travel when he was doing the northern tour.

Now he was packing to do a little work up in Bournemouth.  He wasn’t particularly looking forward to this gig, the theatre was old and musty, and the dressing rooms were crap.  But it was a paid gig, and Terry wanted a little extra money for Christmas presents.

Henry called up from downstairs, “The post is here, there’s some letter from the sodding Inland Revenue.  You’d better have paid your taxes this year, Miss DuBois!”  His voice was wearily teasing.

“It’s me refund, I just know it!  They always take forever to do the readjustments, love,” Terry said, coming down the narrow stairs with his suitcase.

Henry was standing there in an apron, looking through the rest of the post.  “Hang on, hang on!  There’s a letter here from Joe and Nina.  I suppose they’re still trying to run that ridiculous workshop up there in that cavern of a church.  Why they bother, when most actors wouldn’t come out to the country unless they were filming an episode of Poirot, I’ll never understand!”

Terry came and looked over Henry’s shoulder as he opened the letter. 

After reading for a moment, Henry burst out with, “_The Lady’s Not For Burning_!?!  Are they out of their dear little work-shopped minds?  No one wants to do that old chestnut.  Gielgud didn’t want to do it in 1948, why the hell does Joe think anyone’s interested in that ridiculous old iambic claptrap now?”

“Well, darling, I’m sure she’s got her reasons.  Mrs. Harper knows a good play when she sees one!  And she wants us to come back and do it, the darling!”

“Not on my sainted aunt Petunia.  I’m not going anywhere near that frozen cave that calls itself a building.  I still shudder remembering those horrible vegetarian meals of Tom’s.”

“Oh, I don’t know, I remember you putting away quite a lot of the meatless shepherd’s pie!”

“Hmph!  I’ll just bet Joe wants me to play the idiot mayor.  And of course, you’re to play the sister.  Oh, well, I suppose otherwise I’d have to endure another Christmas alone with you and your bad rendition of “Santa Baby”, so I guess we’ll do it.”  Henry stumped back into the kitchen, took off the apron and sat down to eat his yogurt.

“Of course, we will, you old grumpy Gertie!” trilled Terry, following after him.  He poured a bowl of cornflakes for himself and then joined Henry at the table.  “I’ll love the chance to do another bit of serious theatre.  Tim’ll be so pleased.  He can bring his new girlfriend down.”

“Oh, yeah?  And how many girlfriends does that make, this month alone?  He doesn’t half go through them, does he?”

“He takes after the old man, does my son!  If you know what I mean!”  Terry fluttered his eyelashes and put the letter from Joe on the table next to him.  “I’ll have to put off my gig at Bournemouth, but I think they’ll understand, don’t you?”

Henry grunted his assent through his spoonful of bran flakes and picked up the newspaper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tom was in the middle of a profound meditation on the inside of his eyelids when someone dropped something into his lap.

He tried to maintain his focus, his zen, but the physical presence of the object was too distracting.  Finally, irritation pushed into his purposely emptied mind, and he opened his eyes.  Fadge was sitting cross-legged right in front of him, very close now.  Her eyes were big and she had that huge smile on her face that meant hard nipples.  Tom was a little concerned, since that could also mean another day of tantric sex, which he just wasn’t up for.  His morning colonic had really taken it out of him.  He just didn’t have energy for much more.

“Well, go on, Tom, read it!”

Tom looked down at the object, and saw that it was an envelope, already torn open, with a letter poking out of it.  The handwriting looked familiar.  He picked it up and removed the letter, glancing up at Fadge with dawning realization.  This was what had made her nipples hard this time.  Joe.  Joe needed them.  He read the letter through twice, and then looked over at Fadge, trying to feign disinterest.

In the end, he failed miserably, jumping to his feet and picking Fadge up and whirling her around.  “Oh, thank Christ!  Work!  Theatre work!  If I had to put another ounce of latex on my face, I was going to need serious amounts of cognitive therapy!”

“Do you know the play, Tom?”

“No, can’t say that I do, but it’s work, Fadge.  Real, honest, theatre work.  I thought I’d never see the inside of a theatre again.”

“Well, you won’t be this time either, Tom dear.  It’s being put on at that cavern of a church.”

Tom stood back and looked noble.  “It’s theatre enough for me, Fuh.  It’s hard graft, it’s greasepaint, it’s struggle and toil.”

Fadge grinned.  “And cigarette smoke, and bad cooking, and bad wine, and sleeping in crypts.  Such larks, Tom darling, such larks!  I hope the costumes will be challenging.  I have contacts now.  I can actually get some real costumes this time, not that ragbag from the back of my old van.”

“I loved that old van, darling, you know I did.”

“So we’ll go?”

“Of course, we will.  Is there still a phone box down the road at this place?”  The Scottish commune they were living in was very rural and very exclusive, and extremely Luddite.

Fadge nodded absently, obviously already coming up with ideas for the unfamiliar play.

Tom was looking for his address book.  “Of course, I’ve got to call Margie, first.  She won’t be best pleased, she does so hate the theatre, but damn it, I’m a serious actor, I can’t play aliens all my life!  Next thing you know she’ll be offering me a villain’s part in the next James Bond!”

Fadge had wandered off towards the spartan bedroom in the little cabin they were living in, so Tom put on some sandals and made his way down the long dirt road to the phone box.

“Oh, God, no, Tom!  Not you, too!”  Margie’s beautifully round tones echoed tinnily down the wires.

“Afraid so, Margie, awfully sorry.  But I need to get back to my roots.  I need to be true to myself.  I know you’ll understand.”

“But I just got off the phone with James Cameron. He wants you for the villain in his latest action thriller!”

Tom was admittedly tempted, but he made himself stick to his guns.  “Tempting, Margie, but not good enough.”

“Oh, god, you’re worse than Joe!  At least, he had the sense to listen to everything I told him, almost.”

“Now, Margie, that’s not fair.  I did all three of those ghastly alien films, and I did that ridiculous American television pilot.  I really think I’m owed a bit of fun.”

“Right, well, don’t expect me to come and bail the bloody project out.  Joe is insidious that way, don’t lend him any more money, Tom, or you’ll be broke before you know it.”

Tom began to imitate the “pip-pip-pip” sound of the phone running out of money.  “Oh, sorry, Margie, out of money, got to run.”  He hung up and trudged back to the cabin.

Fadge had already packed their things, and was in conference with their spiritual counselor, a small weedy man, named Dave.

Dave was shaking his head.  “But, Fadge, your spiritual journey is only just beginning.  You and Tom have not become one with the surroundings, even.  I mean, you haven’t even done your nature outing or the sacred dance yet.”

Fadge nodded, apologetically putting a hand on Dave’s linen-clad arm.  “I know, Dave, and we’re very sad to miss both of those things, but really, it’s most important that we attend this symposium on yoga and yogurt.  It’s another part of the journey that Tom and I are on, and I know you’ll understand that.  We’ll come back to Aucherbie, I promise, just as soon as we can.  Won’t we, Tom?”

 

Tom agreed instantly, sweeping Dave into a fierce hug and slapping him rather painfully on the back once or twice.  “Absolutely, Dave, we will be back, we promise.”

Dave staggered back from the embrace and nearly tripped over the rolled-up pair of yoga mats Fadge had just put there.  He steadied himself and smiled weakly up at Tom.  Gathering the shreds of his dignity about him, he said, “Well, all right then, I suppose.  Commitment to the journey is essential, but I know that some are not able to fulfill it the first time through.  Why, even our great and lamented founder, Fiona Aucherbie, had her moments of doubt.  Then, all I can say, Tom and Fadge, is, come back to us again, soon, be your realised selves, and keep love in everything you do.”

With that, he gravely kissed both of them lightly on the lips, and still dignified, walked out the open cabin door.

Fadge breathed a sigh of relief.  “There, that’s over!  You know, you really do make living life a lot of fun, Tom darling.”  She came and kissed him.  “I mean, my serious disease is definitely on its way to being cured, isn’t yours?”

His arms went round her and pulled her close.  “I’m still very funny with you, aren’t I?  I made you laugh, just this morning, I seem to recall.”

She nodded and laid her head against him for a moment.  Then she stood back.  “Right then.  Ready to go, darling?”

He picked up the yoga mats and his large duffel bag, and said, “Absolutely.  Lay on, Macduff!”  Fadge giggled and they trudged down the dirt road and managed to thumb a lift to the next town with a large florid man in a Ford van.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vernon Spatch lay on the floor of the old red church in Hope, pointing his video camera at the ceiling and twirling it slowly in his hands.  He loved that ceiling.  It had some really amazing patterns of brickwork, herringbone like the floor but a little more intricate somehow.  He was no architect, so he had no idea how it was put together but he loved looking at it.

Molly Harper nearly tripped over him, coming in.  It was a Saturday, and she was using her precious weekend time to help Joe and Nina get this year’s workshop off the ground.  She had been to the nearest supermarket and bought up every kind of food stuff imaginable.  Joe and Nina were off preparing their workshops, so she and Vernon were left to do the hauling back and forth. Or rather she was, at the moment.

“Vernon, for goodness’ sake, couldn’t you stop playing with that camera and keep unloading the car with me?”

“Oh, right, sorry, love.”  He lithely jumped to his feet and set the camera on a nearby step.  “I just love this ceiling, and the light was just right, so I thought I’d catch it before the light changed.  It’ll look amazing in the documentary, don’t you think?”

Molly looked at him with affection mixed with a touch of exasperation, and said, “Yes, I’m sure it will.  Now please go and get another crate of milk bottles from the estate wagon.”

“Right-o.”

He hurried off, and Molly watched him go, her heart melting a little, as it always did when she looked at him.  She’d always thought that love would never find her again.  She’d been nose-to-the-grindstone -- or blackboard in this case -- and had thought that teaching was the only thing in her life.  Then three years ago, Joe and his wacky bunch of ne’er-do-well actors had swanned into Hope and her existence was turned upside down overnight.  One actor in particular, Vernon Spatch, former child actor, and wannabe filmmaker, had caught her attention.

Vernon was a good man, kind, understanding, funny, and he made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world that he cared for, or had ever cared for.  When that crazy rollercoaster of a Christmas was over, Vernon didn’t leave.  She found she was happy about that, and now he lived in her small cottage with her, and her cat Rosemary, and her small collection of seaside memorabilia.  He had taken over the tiny cellar as his film lab, and stored all his many videotapes and projectors and things down there.

It was as though he’d always been a part of her life.  He wasn’t invasive and he didn’t force her to change her habits; he just sort of worked with them.  She found her life was fuller now, somehow.  It was nice to have someone to talk to at the end of the day, nice to have someone to argue with, besides the headmaster of her school. 

She wondered if one of these days they’d just drift into a registry office and find suddenly that they’d just got married.  Not that it was a requirement on either of their parts, just something that might eventually happen.  She wasn’t too old to start a family, and she often thought about it.  But she hadn’t ever really discussed it with Vernon.  She wasn’t sure why.

She watched him lugging in the crates of milk, making silly faces about the heaviness of them.  She laughed and followed him into the kitchen.  He put the jugs down in the refrigerator and turned to find her standing very close to him.

“Milk in the fridge as requested, Sgt. Major!” he mock saluted her.  She kissed him quickly on the lips and then turned to put the bag of potatoes down that she was carrying. 

“So, Vernon, what’s this play that Joe’s trying to do this year?  I’ve never heard of it.  It’s not too heavy, I hope?”

“_The Lady’s Not For Burning_?  Nah, it’s a comedy, love.  It’s in verse, but it’s definitely funny.  It’s a bit, what would you say, erudite?  But I’m sure Joe can sell it.  He’s brilliant, you know he is.”

“Of course he is, he’s a Harper.” She grinned.  “So, do you think the others will come?”

“What others?”

“The others.  You know.  Terry and Henry, Fadge and Tom, Carnforth.  They’d be mad to, if you ask me.”

“Oh, Terry and Henry’ll come, I guarantee.  They wouldn’t miss doing this play for the world, great parts in it for both of them.  Terry can grande-dame her way through Lady Margaret with no problems.  Now, Fadge and Tom may be a different proposition.  They’ve tasted the wonders of Hollywood and they may not be able to lower themselves back down to this level.  But then, maybe they’re sick of the bright lights and want a little slumming.  Who knows?”

“And Carnforth?”

“Ah, my man Carnforth.  He’ll be here.  He’s sober now, three years.  That AA stuff works every time.  He’s been living with his mum, and doing adverts and such-like.  He’ll jump at the chance to do something serious again, and prove his mettle.”

Molly finished putting the potatoes into a bin under the counter.  “But do you think being sober will have made him a better or a worse actor?” 

“Can’t say, love.  That’s a toss-up.  I’ve seen it work both ways.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out, if he shows up.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Keith Branch, aka Carnforth “Varied” Greville, was feeling very un-varied at the moment.  It was another Sunday lunch at Mum’s; only since he now lived there, it was just like every day’s lunch.  But Mum seemed to cook more food on Sunday, even though it was only ever the two of them.  He tried to tell her not to, but she told him, “But it all freezes so nicely, darling, and we can have lovely left-overs the rest of the week.”  This inevitably led to every lunch and dinner being very much the same sort of thing.

But he loved his mum, and they rubbed along great together, most of the time.  Especially now that he was three years sober.  He missed the drink sometimes, and walking past the pub on the corner was always a challenge, but he’d make himself remember Joe Harper’s words to him that night three years ago, “Carnforth, don’t drink.  You don’t have to.”  That, and Vernon’s little pick-me-up speech about the audience loving him, kept him going through his rougher days.

He liked the work he was doing these days, lots of voice-overs for adverts and kiddy cartoons.  It wasn’t nearly as challenging as doing five different small parts in Hamlet, but then he figured that was a one-time thing.  He’d done some auditions for local plays here in East Grinstead, but they never called him back. 

He’d slimmed down a bit, since he’d gone sober, and he felt a bit more energetic.  He liked walking to and from the train.  He was hoping that one of these days soon, he’d be strong enough to get his own place again.  He’d moved in with Mum after joining the AA meetings, because he felt she’d help keep him honest.  He’d never been drunk in front of her, and this way he never would.  But it had been three years, and he’d sort of met someone.

Judy, her name was, another voice actor.  She had a beautiful voice when she was on the mike, but otherwise she stammered rather, and was deadly afraid of a live audience.  But her voice acting was marvelous, and she was really very pretty, he thought.  She seemed to like him, and he’d like to be able to take her out, without his mum getting too interested.  Mum always got too interested when he went out with women.  She was really desperate for grandchildren, he guessed.  But it made things more awkward than they often were already with the women in question, so he’d been playing it safe.

Well, never mind, he thought, taking another bite of roast beef, done just as he liked it.  Mum takes good care of me, and I’ll be able to find another place soon enough. 

“So, what was that letter from your friend Joe about, Keith, dear?”

Keith looked at his mum, surprised.  “What letter, mum?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t see it!  I laid it right on your chest of drawers upstairs.  Honestly, Keith, you are a caution!”

“I didn’t see it, Mum.  I’ll just run up and get it now, shall I?”

“No, I’ll get it, dear.  You eat your lunch.  Your potatoes will get cold.”

She bustled out and he heard her sturdy footsteps up and down the stairs, reappearing with the letter and laying down next to him.

He ripped it open and read it eagerly.

“Oh, well, if that isn’t a thing, then!”

“What is it, dear?  Is that nice girlfriend of his pregnant?”

“Something called _The Lady’s Not for Burning_.  Don’t know it, but they say there are a couple of good parts for me!”

“Well, it’s not Shakespeare, but it does sound interesting.  You’ll have to go into French’s next time you’re up in London, dear, and get a copy.  When does it start rehearsals?”

“Two weeks before Christmas.”

“As long as it doesn’t interfere with your advert jobs, love, you should really do it.  I suppose it doesn’t pay much.”

“No, mum, it didn’t the last time, remember?  But that’s all right, I’d love to see them all again.  Joe and Nina say they’ve asked the others to all come back.  So it’ll be sort of a reunion, or something.”

“Oh, that will be jolly for you, dear.  I know you liked them all so much.”

Carnforth pulled himself up, looked his mum straight in the eye, and said, “Mum, they’re not a bunch of school friends.  They’re grown-ups, just like me, and we’re going to do a real grown-up piece of theatre, miles above all this advert and kiddy cartoon nonsense.  Real theatre, Mum.  That’s what I’m made for.”

Mrs. Branch looked at her son, handsomer than ever in her eyes, and smiled fondly.  “Of course, you are, Keith, love.  Your father and I always knew that.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“They won’t come, Nina, I know it.”  Joe pushed a hand through his ever-thinning long hair.

“Come on, Joe.  Don’t be so negative, sweetheart.  They love you, they’ll come and help, you know they will.” Nina smiled over at him from where she was cleaning the sink.

“If only I’d picked a more upbeat play.”          

“But, Joe, it’s a comedy.  At least that’s how you explained it to me.”

“Yeah, but it’s a difficult one, lots of heavy verse, you know.”

“Can’t be heavier than Hamlet, and that was a big success.”  Nina came over and slid her arms around Joe’s waist, leaning her head against his back.  “Besides, you’re a really good director, you can make anything interesting.”

“Yeah, well, you’re only a little biased, I might point out,” he said, taking one of her hands and kissing it.

They were standing in the kitchen of the old ugly red church on the outskirts of Hope, the scene of their "triumph" three years ago. Thanks to Tom and Fadge, who were getting fabulously wealthy off that horrible science fiction trilogy, the church had been bought from the developer and handed over immediately to Joe and Nina, for the founding of a winter theatre workshop, someplace to do serious theatre when the pantos and variety shows were taking over the Christmas theatre audiences. The rest of the year it was rented out for other functions, just enough to keep the old place going, barely.

“Look, you’ll never know until they get back to you, love, so just let what happens happen,” Nina said, and gave him a final squeeze before getting back to scrubbing the sink. 

Joe stood for a moment longer, looking out at the bleak, bare trees outside the kitchen window.  His soul felt a bit like those trees, he thought, and then shook himself.  Nonsense, I’m a happy man, with a lovely girlfriend and a job to do.  So I’m not making tremendous amounts of money playing an alien from the planet Zarbok, but I’m doing what I love.  Why aren’t I happier?

As he looked out at the trees and the wet road, a glimmer caught his eye.  It was a large estate wagon, one of the local taxis, he realized, seeing the writing on the side of the door as it pulled up into the longish driveway of the church. 

“Nina.”

No response.  He looked over, and realized she’d put on her headphones and was listening to her CD player.

He watched the taxi come to a stop, and the door open, loosing what seemed a bundle of multi-colored clothing to jump down.  A head topped with spiky hair emerged from under a scarf, as he recognized Fadge, tipping her head back to look up at the church.

“Nina!!” he shouted this time, grabbing her arm.  Startled, she flung the sponge up and it landed on his head and slid soapily down the back of his sweater and onto the floor.

“Joe!  Why’d you grab me?  Now look what you’ve made me do--!”

“Nina, they’re here.  All of them.  Look!”

He pulled her over to the window, where, indeed, everyone was standing around.  Terry, in a sequined sweater and black slacks, was pulling a large hat box and suitcase out of the back, while Henry was grumbling and slapping at his pockets, like he’d misplaced something.  Meanwhile, Tom had leapt out of the front passenger seat, and relieved the driver of a couple of yoga mats and a duffel bag.  Finally, Carnforth Greville was taking a drink from a large water bottle and looking very rumpled, as he stood next to Fadge, looking at the old church.

Having taken this all in, both Joe and Nina raced outside, calling to Vernon and Molly who were busy cleaning up the nave.

There then occurred a large amount of hugging, back-slapping, kissing, more hugging, backslapping, Henry complaining, Terry swanning about, and more hugging.  It continued until finally Molly called a halt to it all and ushered everyone inside.

Joe was standing, still a bit in amazement, on the “stage”, looking down at them all, with their luggage lumped around them.  He was speechless with gratitude, love, or a combination of the two.

 

Finally, he came out with, “Well, gosh, um—thanks, all of you, for showing up.  This is going to be a great show.  We’ve got you, and a few others showing up for the workshop, so it should really be a wonderful experience.  Things are still a bit at sixes and sevens but it’ll be ready to go in no time, right, Nina?  Molly?”

Nina bounced up the stairs and stood next to him, smiling out at everyone.  “It’s wonderful that you could all come.  Joe didn’t think you would, but I told him he was being silly.  So here you all are and—“

“Sorry, Nina, love, but I’m bursting for the toilet.  Can we do the rest of the welcome speeches later?” With that, Henry walked off towards the loo.

Joe and Nina shrugged their shoulders.  Terry piped up, “It’s still colder than the inside of my deepfreeze in here, loves.  Any chance of some central heating?”

“Well, now, Terry, no, no central heating, but we have some really wonderful new space heaters that are great for curling up next to.”  That was Molly, trying to sound cheerful.

“Oh, that will be a treat!” Terry said, sounding as though it would be anything but.

Everyone began to pick up their things, following Molly to the new area where they had actually set up some makeshift rooms, with MDF walls and the kind of bunk beds you find in hostels.

Joe helped Fadge carry her bags into the room she’d be sharing with Tom. “How is it you all came in the same taxi?  Did you all travel together?” he asked, dumping down a yoga mat on the floor.

“No, Joe, no, but we all met up at the station.  Thought it would make a lot more ecological sense, us all taking the same taxi, since we were all going to the same place.”

“What about the costumes, Fadge?”

“Darling, I’ll simply have my friends at Cosprop send down a sampling.  It’ll be fine.  Don’t worry,” she said, drifting off.  “I need to get a sense of the space again.  Oh, by the way, love, what is this play?  Tom and I have never heard of it, but it does sound a bit interesting.  Why is the lady not for burning, exactly?”

“Because she’s not actually a witch.  Or is she?” Joe gave a mysterious quirk of the eyebrow and went to find Tom.

Tom had put down a yoga mat and was seated in the lotus position.  Joe started to say something, but Tom put up a finger.  “Sorry, Joe, meditation.  I’ve put it off for as long as I can, but I really do need to get my zen back, really.  I’ll be with you in about ten minutes.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders, smiling, and turned around, almost running right into Carnforth.

“Carnforth, you are really looking well.  Are you happy?”

“I am, Joe, I am.  Well, I’d like not to be living with Mum anymore, but otherwise, I’ve been keeping busy.  I am glad to get a chance to do a bit more theatre, though.  Thanks for this.”

“It’s good to have you back, Carnforth.”

“Thanks, Joe. Um, Joe?  I took a look at the play.  The verse, well, it’s a little much, isn’t it?”

Joe put his hands on Carnforth’s shoulders.  “You can handle it.  I have every faith in you.  I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, Joe, you were right.”

“Good man.”

Joe gave him a brief hug and walked back onto the stage.  He watched the bustle and the laughter for a moment and then said, quietly to himself, “Merry Christmas.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
